


Litany of Smoke and Water

by hanap



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), M/M, Recreational Drug Use, cigarettes as a love language, smoking through the ages, we are all about the yearning, yet another fic about the Blitz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27993489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap
Summary: Aziraphale has developed something of a guilty habit in the past few years, but he makes sure his indulgences are few and far between. A few minutes of refuge wrapped in a carefully rolled stick of paper and tobacco.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 73
Kudos: 172
Collections: Best Aziraphale and Crowley





	Litany of Smoke and Water

**Author's Note:**

> Written as an early Christmas gift for the inimitable [hollow-head](https://hollow-head.tumblr.com/), who's been letting me play in the glorious sandbox of their fantastic art. 
> 
> This fic is based on [this amazing artwork](https://hollow-head.tumblr.com/post/186995139954/saw-a-post-about-how-itd-be-sexy-if-they-smoked) and also [this hilarious one](https://hollow-head.tumblr.com/post/188828723869/this-was-a-deleted-scene-right-gosh-i-love) which I've gone and butchered into this thing full of pining.
> 
> I quote from their tag on Tumblr: remember kids, smoking isn't cool unless you're immortal.

There had only been a split second for Aziraphale to make a decision before the bomb dropped. A miracle for Crowley, for himself, and for – 

His train of thought screeches to a halt when he realises that he’s forgotten all about his beloved books of prophecy. 

The moment Crowley hands him the carpetbag etches itself permanently into his mind – a sense-memory of skin brushing against skin, ears still ringing slightly from the blast, the choking scent of smoke scraping its way down his throat, the sculpted edges of Crowley’s face drawn in firelight and shadow.

For a second, he forgets how to breathe. How could he possibly get in the car now in the face of this blinding revelation? He doesn’t know how he can sit still long enough for the agony of the drive back to the bookshop that’s objectively only a few minutes away, but subjectively the span of six thousand years. Gingerly, he sits on the very edge of his seat, glancing at Crowley out of the corner of his eye, forcing himself to take only small sips when he’s been dying of thirst for longer than he cares to remember.

(The humans come the next day and are shocked to find that in the wreckage, there’s a font full of holy water left completely untouched. Not even a speck of ash on the surface. _A real miracle_ , they say, their eyes wide with wonder.)

\--

Aziraphale has developed something of a guilty habit in the past few years. There's something to be said about the potency of scent in evoking memory. The faintest trace of smoke transports him back to the church as though no time has passed at all, setting off a tripwire that makes his heart ache with yearning. He makes sure his indulgences are few and far between. A few minutes of refuge wrapped in a carefully rolled stick of paper and tobacco.

The entire expanse of the universe is a no-smoking zone, save for the small flat on the second floor of the bookshop. No one has ever been upstairs but himself. Gabriel thankfully never cares to see more than the shop and its back room. And the only other being who might have occasion to see it, well... not much occasion for that now, seeing as Aziraphale hasn’t seen him in over a decade. A blink of an eye for most immortals, and yet Aziraphale finds himself subconsciously keeping track of the years, months, weeks, days passing.

Nearly eleven years to the day since that night, Aziraphale realises, catching sight of a newspaper while sitting on the bus back to the bookshop. 

Suddenly, he feels compelled to alight three stops too soon. Just a little something to remember it by, he tells himself, the moment of recklessness overcoming him. 

He ducks into a narrow alleyway and pulls out a golden case, and he’s already got a stick between his pursed lips before he discovers that he can’t seem to find his lighter. He checks his pockets meticulously one by one, patting down his trousers and the inner lining of his coat, but to no avail. It would be the work of a tiny miracle to light it himself, but he’d really rather not have Gabriel breathing down his neck again. He sighs and flicks open the golden case with a click once more.

 _Aziraphale,_ a voice drawls right next to Aziraphale, and he startles, nearly dropping his cigarette. _Need a light?_

 _Oh, good lord._ Aziraphale's pulse is roaring in his ears from more than just the shock. _You gave me a fright, Crowley, what are you doing here?_

 _I was in the area._ Crowley shrugs. He’s dressed as sharply as ever in what looks like very fine wool gabardine, fastidiously tailored in blacks and dark greys. The fedora on his fiery hair is tipped at a rakish angle, and it nearly makes Aziraphale smile to see it. _Didn’t know you smoked._

Aziraphale clears his throat, suddenly self-conscious. _I don’t. Not really._

_What’s the harm? It’s not like it does anything to our corporations._

The guilt bubbles in Aziraphale’s chest. There’s no way he can explain it now, not with Crowley so close Aziraphale can smell the subtle musky notes of the fragrance that he’s wearing. Not in this cramped space where the endless noise of the city mutes itself to an almost indistinguishable hum, where Aziraphale can pretend for just a few minutes that they’re alone. Silently, he holds out the case to Crowley in offering, and watches as his long fingers pluck out a cigarette with his usual grace.

Crowley’s left hand moves in a complicated motion, and suddenly there’s a tiny flame dancing on his forefinger, illuminating his face in the darkness. He holds it out to Aziraphale first, and without thinking, Aziraphale grabs his hand to steady it, cupping his hand around the firelight by sheer muscle memory.

It’s impossible to miss the way Crowley freezes at Aziraphale’s touch – Aziraphale fears he’s overstepped, and makes to let go, but Crowley grips his hand suddenly.

 _S’alright,_ Crowley says, his voice gravelly. _I – I had to make sure._

_Of what?_

There's a beat before Crowley speaks again. _That it isn't hellfire. I mean, of course it isn’t. Stupid, I know._

 _No, not at all,_ Aziraphale murmurs. The thought that Crowley might summon hellfire in his presence has never even occurred to him, simply because he knows Crowley never would. He leans forward, inhaling until the cigarette is alight in Crowley’s flame.

\--

Somehow, it seems to Aziraphale that it would have ended this way, one way or another. After all, how could he ever refuse Crowley the one thing he’s asked for, in the thousands of years they’ve known each other?

He blesses the water himself. _Sed libera nos a malo._ Six millennia of keeping Crowley safe, and he isn’t about to stop now.

Here in the tiny space of the Bentley, distance and time seem to distort themselves into incomprehensible concepts. The laws of earthly physics don’t apply when he and Crowley are sitting in its lavish confines, the scent of leather and smoke thick in Aziraphale’s lungs. Time passes in leaps and bounds, yet every moment feels like an eternity. And somehow, against all their rules, the thermos in its tartan wrapper bridges the impasse between them.

For a second, the veil lifts, and Aziraphale doesn’t need to see Crowley’s golden eyes to know that he understands that this is a surrender for Aziraphale. A sacrifice of the highest order, to bottle with his own hands a weapon that could assure Crowley’s destruction.

 _Anywhere you want to go,_ Crowley says.

It takes every ounce of Aziraphale’s restraint to keep from giving in to the imploring look on Crowley’s face, to refuse the vow he’s making. The spell must break. This is as far as they can go. He will hold Crowley at arm's length for the rest of their days if that's what it takes. _You go too fast for me, Crowley._

Six millennia of keeping Crowley safe, and he isn’t about to stop now. 

\--

Nine years go by, and the last thing Aziraphale is expecting is for Crowley to waltz into the bookshop one day without a word of warning. His long red curls are parted in the middle, softening the angles of his face – it registers briefly that this may be one of the few times in their long lives Aziraphale has seen Crowley in such _enormous_ trousers – and apropos of absolutely nothing, Crowley proclaims, _I’ve got something for you, and you’re going to like it._

Aziraphale shouldn’t be so thrilled to see Crowley, but he can’t seem to hold back the smile that’s nearly splitting his face in two. _One of these days, you’re going to learn to say hello before anything else,_ he says, shaking his head in mock disapproval. _I don’t think you have since Mesopotamia._

He bites his tongue hard – he hadn’t meant for that to slip out. It isn’t as though he’s keeping track, of course, why would he?

 _Manners,_ Crowley says, waving the moment away casually with an elegant hand. _Anyway, you know me, why does it matter?_

Aziraphale can feel the flush creeping into his cheeks. Why, indeed, when no one else knows him as well as Crowley does? 

He can’t quite remember how they end up on the couch. Crowley stretches out comfortably with his long legs hanging over an armrest, Aziraphale perched on the edge next to him. He feels pleasantly light. The smoke is mellow, smooth as wine, but without the dull edge of alcohol. A vibrating pulse thrumming under his skin, spiking every time their fingers meet around the blunt.

 _Of course,_ Aziraphale muses, _the way I see it is that the Almighty is very upfront about which plants are forbidden._

Crowley barks out a laugh. _That’s right, angel,_ and Aziraphale warms at the long-unheard appellation, familiar and warm on Crowley’s tongue. _It’d have a big “don’t touch” sign on it._ He takes a long drag, holds his breath, exhales slowly through parted lips, the smoke brushing like a caress over Aziraphale’s face. _So this should be fine, eh?_

The shop is too spacious. Open to the public, exposed like a nerve. Even in the buzz of this herb-infused haze, Aziraphale can’t seem to keep it from sinking its claws into his thoughts.

For a moment, he thinks of the little flat upstairs. The room that no one but himself has ever stepped into. He glances at Crowley and sees that the round sunglasses have slid down the bridge of Crowley’s nose. Aziraphale can’t help gazing at him, mesmerised at the way the gold has spread to the very edges. Crowley looks up and catches Aziraphale staring, but he only smiles, soft and almost uncertain under his usual bravado. 

Aziraphale bites back the words that are threatening to fall from his lips. _All I want is a room up there and you in it._

\--

A decade should feel like the blink of an eye for an immortal. But Aziraphale can’t seem to stop counting. 

Over thirty years of radio silence drag by. He smokes in the little flat upstairs, the cold edges of his lighter digging hard into his palm. 

\--

One day, the phone rings.

_It’s me. We need to talk._

\--

Nanny in her pencil skirts and her heels click-clacking everywhere she goes. Dark blouses buttoned up tight, never a curl out of place. The Antichrist cooing in her arms. The sight of them taking a turn about the grounds shouldn’t be as unspeakably adorable as it is.

Some nights, Nanny comes by the tiny cottage, and they sit together on the porch, sharing a cigarette between them, and it’s almost like old times. Crowley lounging on a worn-out wooden chair, languidly blowing smoke rings right in Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale tries not to count, but the habit is too deeply ingrained in him to stop now. He holds onto each second for as long as he can. He isn’t sure how he’s going to survive the surfeit of the last five years of seeing Crowley daily, but in these stolen moments, with the scent of smoke in his nostrils, he allows himself to forget. A few minutes of refuge in a burning cigarette.

\--

The sound of Crowley’s voice in this moment – choked with tears, hoarse with whiskey – breaks Aziraphale’s heart. _Your bookshop isn’t there anymore,_ he whispers, _it burned down._

Even without a body, the words pull what feels like a visceral reaction out of Aziraphale. The smoke clawing its way down his throat, pricking his eyes. _All of it?_

 _Yeah,_ Crowley says regretfully, and the pain lances through Aziraphale, cold and sharp as ice. He thinks of the little flat on the second floor. The room Crowley had never seen, the double bed he’d never slept in, the blankets that had never covered his body as he lay soft and relaxed in sleep.

_All I wanted was a room up there and you in it._

\--

Somehow, the Antichrist pushes the burning sulphur and brimstone back under the tarmac.

For the first time in decades, maybe centuries, or even millennia – the tightness in Aziraphale’s throat is nothing but joy when he looks at Crowley, who’s smiling with the sort of unbridled delight that Aziraphale hasn’t seen on his face since the Beginning.

\--

In this resurrected body, space feels so much less intimidating. Aziraphale wonders if this is how new-born humans feel, exploring a brave new world. In this body, he can close gaps he couldn’t seem to cross before. He reaches out and marvels at how his hand fills the spaces between Crowley’s fingers.

The bus ride back to London is longer than he’s used to – how unfortunate is it that his standard of speed is Crowley’s breakneck careening across the streets in a mockery of proper driving? But right now, he doesn’t mind at all. 

For a brief second, he presses his cheek against the head of red hair that lies heavy against his shoulder, breathes in the lingering scent of smoke and ash caught in the delicate strands, and finds that he isn’t even the slightest bit guilty about it. He is, if anything, brimming entirely with happiness.

\--

He holds onto this, the fiercely incandescent joy he carries, even as they threaten to douse it in a bathtub that holds Crowley's destruction. _The holiest,_ Michael says, but Aziraphale knows no water will ever be as holy as the water he blessed with his own hands to keep his beloved safe.

The very thought of it burns. A surge of protectiveness fills him to know that he’s spared Crowley this awful execution. His fury is white-hot, but he holds back. Let them fear him now. Better if they're left wondering what he might be capable of. 

Even Aziraphale himself doesn't know what he might be capable of, if they ever threatened to hurt Crowley again. 

Not for the first time, he wonders what Agnes Nutter must have seen, to make this prophecy about the two of them. Water and flame bound so closely together that not even Heaven or Hell can tell where Aziraphale ends and Crowley begins.

\--

They have dinner at the Ritz. In this new body, the food is even more exquisite than he remembers.

\--

The bell tinkles as the bookshop door shuts behind them with a click, and without so much as a by-your-leave, Aziraphale picks Crowley up, literally sweeps him right off his feet, ignoring Crowley’s squawks of surprise. He's acutely aware of the heat of Crowley's body pressed against his, setting him aflame as he carries Crowley upstairs to the little room he’s never seen, his wriggling limbs safely gathered up in Aziraphale's arms. 

For an instant, he hesitates at the door – but it’s only for an instant, and he crosses the threshold with Crowley and drops him unceremoniously on the bed.

He sits on the edge of the mattress, and now, at last, he can drink his fill. Crowley’s glasses are askew, hair all dishevelled, and his face is burning red, jaw dropped wide open – he looks absolutely ridiculous, and Aziraphale has never loved him more.

“All I wanted was a room up here and you in it _,_ ” Aziraphale blurts out, his vision blurring as the words finally spill from his mouth. 

Crowley reaches up and pulls Aziraphale against him, with a sound in his throat caught between a laugh and a sob. “Quit milling around and come kiss me.”

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: Just added some beautiful artwork by lei-sam on Tumblr that NaroMoreau commissioned for me as a Christmas present! Holy crap it's beautiful and I adore it, but tbh Naro's friendship is the real gift!!!
> 
> Gratuitous lines of poetry pulled from [Richard Siken](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48158/litany-in-which-certain-things-are-crossed-out) (sigh, I know) and [Frank O'Hara](https://genius.com/Frank-ohara-steps-annotated). 
> 
> Many hugs for [NaroMoreau](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau), [Jenanigans1207](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenanigans1207/pseuds/Jenanigans1207) and [DemonicGeek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicGeek/pseuds/DemonicGeek) for letting me randomly yeet this at them in a fit of drunkenness. 
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
